Death in a Desert Land

by Andrew Wilson

  “What? What is it?” asked McRae.

  I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. The men were gathered around the bed. I pushed past them to see Miss Jones holding a glass, her face contorted in pain.

  “What’s happened?” I asked. “Cynthia, can you talk?”

  She looked down at the bed with horror. A swirl of white fumes rose up from the bedsheet. As I bent down I noticed that there was a sharp smell that pinched my nose. On closer inspection I noticed that the patch by Cynthia’s side seemed to bubble as if part of the mattress was beginning to dissolve.

  “It looks—and smells—like hydrochloric acid,” I said. I remembered Woolley telling me that the archaeologists used the chemical to clean the cuneiform tablets.

  “What?” said Woolley. “Miss Jones—are you hurt at all?”

  “The water—I went to take a drink,” she said, stumbling over her words. “It was dark. I reached out for my glass by the bed, but . . .”

  She started to shift her position, moving her legs dangerously close to the patch of bed that continued to fizz and dissolve.

  “Don’t move,” said Woolley. “Cynthia, stay exactly where you are!”

  “What?” she said, unable or unwilling to take in the horror of it all.

  “It’s dangerous,” said Woolley. “There’s acid on the bed. My God, look, it’s eating away at the fabric.”

  Cynthia looked down at the sizzling mass beside her and then up at her glass. “I woke up with a dry mouth,” she said. “I was about to take a drink and then I think the sound of the wind outside gave me a shock and I must have spilled it. I heard a fizzing noise. I felt something on my leg . . . and then pain. I managed to light a candle by my bed. That’s when I saw this . . . that’s when I started screaming.”

  I looked down to see a circular patch of redness above her left knee. It looked as though the top layer of skin had been eaten away by a splatter of acid.

  “We need to see to that right away,” I said, finding myself slipping into nursing mode. “Can you feel pain anywhere else?”

  Cynthia shook her head.

  “Miller, can you fetch me a pan of water and some clean towels?” Just as he was about to leave the room I called out, “And I don’t suppose you have any ice?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Woolley.

  “Never mind,” I said. “We can work with what we’ve got.”

  As I was studying Cynthia’s burn, I heard her breathing become more erratic. Her face was white and she looked around the room with panic in her eyes.

  “What would have happened if I had taken a drink?” she asked. She looked at the glass again.

  “Try not to dwell on that,” said Woolley. “Here, let me take that from you.” He took a pillow from the bed, stripped it, and used the pillowcase to wrap around his hand and protect his fingers. “There we are,” he said as he reached out and gently grasped the glass. “Let’s place it over on the bedside table.”

  “To think that I could have swallowed it,” she said. “How I would have suffered. With that . . . that acid burning its way through me.” Cynthia burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.

  McRae leant down and studied the glass. “The question is: How did the acid get into the glass and who put it there? Did you see anyone come into your bedroom?”

  Cynthia looked confused, uncertain about what she had just been asked.

  “What if . . . ?” said McRae to himself before he ran out of the room with no explanation.

  “I nearly came head-to-head with McRae,” said the photographer as he returned with a bowl of water and a pile of towels. “What’s got into him?”

  “We can’t worry about that now,” I said. I asked Cynthia to move to the other side of the bed, away from the nasty patch of acid on the mattress. “Please pass me the water and the towels.” I placed a hand on Cynthia’s arm. “Now, this is going to hurt, so you will have to be brave,” I said. “Can you do that for me?”

  Cynthia nodded her head as she tried to wipe away her tears.

  “I’m going to clean the affected skin,” I said, taking hold of a towel and dipping it in water.

  I squeezed the towel over the acid burn so as to let some water drop onto the skin. Cynthia winced and automatically moved her leg away from me. As I began to dab and wash the site, she clasped the bedsheets with her hands and gritted her teeth with resolve.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You’re doing very well.”

  “I heard the knocking and the banging at the door, but I couldn’t get out of bed,” she said. “I know I should have got up and let you in, but I felt incapable of moving. I felt so afraid.”

  “Don’t worry about that now,” I said as I continued to clean the wound. “You were probably in shock.”

  I felt Cynthia’s eyes on me as I dripped some more water onto her leg. I sensed that there was something she wanted to ask me. “This won’t take much longer, I promise,” I added.

  Her eyes darted back and forth and she took a few deep breaths before she finally readied herself to speak. “Do you think this was Mrs. Woolley’s doing?” she whispered. “After all, that’s what she threatened to do. But I don’t understand. She was being watched, wasn’t she?”

  At that moment McRae entered the room shouting.

  “Davison’s out cold,” he cried. “He was supposed to be on guard. And Mrs. Woolley’s door’s unlocked.”

  “What?” asked Woolley.

  “He’s still breathing, but I don’t know whether he’s been knocked out or drugged or what,” said McRae.

  “Have you checked on Katharine to make sure she is all right?” Woolley asked.

  “No, but I—”

  Woolley cut him off. “Stay here and look after the women,” he said, pushing past the architect. “I’ll go and see what’s happening. What about Forster?”

  “Yes, he’s all right,” McRae said. “At least, I think he is. I called out to him and I heard him answer.”

  “Why didn’t he come earlier when I was calling?” I asked.

  “Perhaps he fell asleep,” McRae offered. “That, or he didn’t hear you because of the noise of the wind.”

  With Woolley out of the room, McRae began to tell us his hypothesis. It was obvious who was behind all of this, he said. There was only one name under suspicion: that of Mrs. Woolley. Had Katharine drugged Davison at some point that evening? Could she have persuaded him to open the door and then slipped something into his tea? Or had she simply hit him over the head?

  “She would stop at nothing, of that I’m certain,” he said. “With Davison unconscious, all she needed to do was walk across the courtyard. Nobody would have seen or heard her with the sandstorm raging. Then she stole into Miss Jones’s room while she was sleeping. She simply replaced Cynthia’s glass of water with one containing the acid and then slipped back to her own room.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Cynthia. “What about the door? I locked it before I went to bed and it was still locked when you broke in.”

  “Perhaps she has a spare key,” said McRae, “which she used to open the door and then lock it again from the outside.”

  “But why? Why would she want to do this to me?” asked the terrified woman.

  “Maybe you saw something,” McRae suggested. “Or perhaps you overheard a snatch of conversation that incriminated Mrs. Woolley in some way—something that connected her to the murder of Miss Archer.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and started to cry once more. “I’m so terribly confused.”

  “Think!” insisted McRae. “You must have seen something. Even if it seems inconsequential, trivial.”

  “I don’t know . . . I . . .”

  “Look, Woolley will be back soon and you may not get another chance,” said McRae. “You know what he’s like.”

  “But surely not Mrs. Woolley? We’ve always been friends. She would never do anything to hurt me!” Cynthia insisted.

  “You may li
ke to think that, but she’s obviously lost her reason,” said McRae. “What other explanation could there be? I’m certain that Cecil would never have hurt Sarah Archer. And if he didn’t do it, then who did? The answer is obvious, isn’t it?”

  “But what about the boy’s confession?” asked Conway.

  “Just a smoke screen,” said McCrae in a dismissive manner. “That, or as I’ve said before, it was forced out of him by that fool Forster. No, as far as I see it, the killer has to be—”

  “You were saying, McRae?” said Woolley, stepping into the room. “Who is the killer?”

  McRae did not even hesitate. Instead, he walked towards Woolley and faced him head on.

  “Your wife!” shouted McRae. “That’s who!”

  “We’ve been through all this before,” said Woolley. “The accusation is ridiculous.”

  “Can’t you see what is right before your nose?” McRae exclaimed. “She herself said as much earlier. She told Miss Jones that she would try to kill her, and lo and behold, what happens?” He turned to each of us in turn, pausing for extra effect almost as if he were an actor on a stage. “The poor woman wakes up with a glass of hydrochloric acid by her bed!”

  “I’m sure there is some explanation for this,” said Woolley. “Let’s see . . . Perhaps, Miss Jones, you, you picked up the acid by mistake from one of the workrooms where the cleaning of the cuneiform tablets was taking place.”

  Cynthia look bewildered. “No, I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Or you . . . perhaps you experienced an episode of sleepwalking,” Woolley posited. “I’ve heard it’s more common than people think.”

  “Really?” replied McRae. “Is that the best you can do? It’s pathetic.”

  “I will not have you speak to me like that,” said Woolley, reddening in the face. “Do you hear me?”

  “What are you going to do about it?” McRae took another step closer to him. “What?” he shouted, his spittle spraying the older man’s face. “Are you going to get your wife to try to kill me, too?”

  On hearing that, Woolley clenched his fist and readied himself to strike. I could bear it no longer. “If fight you must, can you please take yourselves elsewhere?” I said.

  The sharp remark brought both men to their senses. “Of course,” mumbled Woolley. McRae did not respond but turned away from the group in anger and no doubt embarrassment as well.

  “How was Katharine?” I asked.

  “She was sleeping,” said Woolley. “Looks like she’s been in bed for hours. But it’s true, her door was unlocked.”

  My second question was about Davison.

  “Yes, out like a light,” he said. “Slumped in the chair outside her room. Mighty queer business. I can’t make head or tail of it.” Bafflement was written across his face. “I think it’s best if I talk to Forster and tell him . . . well, tell him about Davison and also what’s gone on here.”

  “And what about your wife?” asked McRae. “You can’t just leave the room unguarded.” Although his tone was more polite now, it was obvious that the architect still had his misgivings about Mrs. Woolley. “If nobody else is prepared to go and sit outside her room, I will do it myself.” He walked to the door and, just before he left the room, turned back to face us to say, “I don’t know about all of you, but I have no wish to be murdered in my bed.”

  29

  Just as the storm began to ease outside, the pressure inside the house intensified.

  Before he was due to take his place outside Katharine’s door, McRae raised Mr. and Mrs. Archer from their beds and informed them that there had been an attempt on Cynthia Jones’s life. Someone had swapped the secretary’s customary nighttime beaker of water for a glass of hydrochloric acid. Miss Jones was now in her room, where she was recovering from a minor burn to her leg and the shock of the experience. He also told them that Davison, the man in charge of guarding Mrs. Woolley, had been rendered unconscious and had been carried back to his room. He pointed the finger of suspicion at the woman they had originally blamed for the death of their daughter: none other than the clearly deranged Katharine Woolley.

  In the meantime, Woolley had given the facts of that night’s events to Forster. Although he tried to remain impartial and pronounced that it was important to wait for the appropriate evidence to come to light, it seemed that Forster too suspected Katharine Woolley. McRae appealed to the captain to let him see his nephew, but the policeman was adamant. Nothing would be decided that night, he said. Instead, he thought it best if he took both Cecil McRae and Katharine Woolley back to Baghdad the next day for questioning. The storm should clear by first light and they would set out, together with the Archers and their daughter’s body, in the morning. He guaranteed that he would get to the bottom of it all. He asked everyone to keep calm. It would be best, he said, if we all retired to our beds and tried to get a good night’s sleep before we met the next day. He suggested we pull together to help clear up after the storm and then meet for breakfast. After that, he would set out for Baghdad, where he was certain that justice would be done.

  I had my doubts. Not only was there a very real possibility that the rule of law was in danger of being corrupted, but an innocent person would suffer in the most appalling way possible. If I did nothing I knew what would happen.

  It was time for me to act.

  I pretended to say good night, but instead of going to bed I slipped into Davison’s room.

  “Davison, it’s me, Agatha,” I whispered. “It’s safe.”

  I saw his body stir on the bed and a moment later he sat up.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “Just what we thought would happen,” I said. “The Archers and McRae are baying for blood. Katharine Woolley is one step away from being hanged, or whatever barbaric form of punishment they choose to inflict upon her out here.”

  I walked over to his bedside table and used a match to light a candle. “Did you enjoy your beauty sleep?” I asked in a deliberately mocking tone.

  “Pretending to be asleep is actually strangely exhausting,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “And I must say, having to be carried around like a sack of potatoes is most undignified.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “Nothing of any import,” he said. “Just the usual grumblings about Woolley and his wife. Now, what’s the next step?”

  “We haven’t got much time,” I said. “What with the storm beginning to ease off, Forster has said that he plans to set off for Baghdad in the morning.”

  “Do you think anyone suspects?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “But maybe that’s a bad thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We know what’s going on, but we still need proof,” I said.

  Davison looked at me with a concerned expression. “You’re not proposing to . . . ?” He hesitated. He knew from past experience how far I would go in the search for truth. “Please, Agatha. You’re beginning to worry me.”

  “It is a risk,” I said. “But I cannot for the life of me think of another way.”

  “What?” he hissed. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind.”

  Slowly and as calmly as I could, I outlined my plan to catch the killer.

  30

  During the night, as the screaming of the storm lessened to a howl and then a mere whisper, we finalized the scheme. Just before dawn I crept out of Davison’s room and retreated back to my own to wait for first light, when everything would be exposed.

  At dawn I made myself a cup of tea and stepped outside. The early morning sun caressed the desert with a delicate beauty that nearly brought tears to my eyes. I watched the ever-shifting sands turn from purple to violet and rose to yellow ocher, and finally towards something that approached a delicate shade of apricot. I breathed in the clean air and steeled myself for what was to come.

  I listened as the house came to life and Woolley began to direct a superficial cleanup after the sto
rm.

  “I should think the servants, together with the rest of the workmen, will return from the village in a couple of hours,” he said. “Hamoudi will tell them when he thinks it’s safe to make the trek across the desert. After one of these storms, one always has to be mindful of sand rivers and sinking sands. It can be quite perilous for those who don’t know how to navigate the territory.”

  Conway began to sweep up great piles of sand that had amassed in the corners of the courtyard. After making sure that Katharine could not escape, McRae left his position outside her room to climb onto the roof to fix some tiles that had come loose. Father Burrows had been given the job of preparing a substantial breakfast for all of us, and from inside the compound came the delicious smell of baking bread and the cooking of fatty meat.

  By seven o’clock everyone had started to drift into the main room for breakfast. When Davison appeared, he was questioned about the events of the night before. What could he remember? Had someone bashed him over the head? Had he ingested something—perhaps a tincture or tea laced with some drug—that had made him feel drowsy?

  In response to the inquiries he said, “I’m sorry, but I cannot for the life of me remember anything about it. I woke up this morning feeling a little groggy.”

  “Perhaps you had too much sun,” said Father Burrows as he placed a pot of coffee on the table. “I did notice that you went out without your hat at one point yesterday.”

  “Yes, that could well have been it,” Davison agreed.

  It was then that Hamoudi knocked on the door. He said a string of sentences in Arabic which I think were related to the storm and then took out a letter and gave it to Davison. Apparently it had been sent express from London but had been delayed due to the weather. My friend did not open the message but made his excuses and said he was still feeling a little out of sorts. He retreated to his room, where I joined him a few minutes later. Both of us were a trifle nervous about reading the contents of the letter. We had been waiting for some information to come from London. Would the missive prove our theory or reveal that we were completely off the mark?